


3 AM

by lenticularprint



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Mankind Divided
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-14 12:43:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16913094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenticularprint/pseuds/lenticularprint
Summary: He doesn't know why he kept the comm frequency. He hated having to bug the apartment at all - nearly didn't do it, he figured he'd done enough sneaking around for someone else's agenda - but Janus pushed for it. And pushed. And pushed. And after what happened with ARC, and GARM, with the suggestion TF29 might be rotting from the inside, he understood why. They had to know.So he left a parting gift at Miller's place. He didn't have much choice. Part of the job. He tries not to feel like shit about it, and mostly fails.





	3 AM

He doesn't know why he kept the comm frequency. He hated having to bug the apartment at all - nearly didn't do it, he figured he'd done enough sneaking around for someone else's agenda - but Janus pushed for it. And pushed. And pushed. And after what happened with ARC, and GARM, with the suggestion TF29 might be rotting from the inside, he understood why. They had to know.   
  
So he left a parting gift at Miller's place. He didn't have much choice. Part of the job. He tries not to feel like shit about it, and mostly fails.  
  
He had a while where he kept half an eye on his HUD, waiting for shady deals and exchanges that never came. Instead he just monitored the outgoing communications, and sometimes he'd boredly watched his boss clean his teeth and trudge round his apartment and... do other stuff.   
  
(He closed the link, looked away, just a few seconds too late. He didn't mean - His  _boss_ , he reminded himself, even as he watched the tensing of muscle. Big guy, under all the suits and armour. Strong, lean. And Jim looked damn good when he finally let himself go, even if it was just for a few seconds. But it was silent, simple, repetitive. Like he was used to barracks. Or like he thought he didn't deserve to enjoy it. Just scratching an inconvenient itch. Adam gets that, somehow; he tries not to think of the days after the augs, trying to remember that his body was _his_. So the guy can disassemble and rebuild a rifle in seconds and jerk himself off with military efficiency. Almost impressive.)  
  
He was glad to give up any pretense of surveillance pretty quickly.  
  
But after London, the Orchid, he guesses he wanted to make sure no-one tried again. There aren't that many loose ends to tie up, and Jim is one of them. He's had enough people die because he didn't do enough, because he assumed they were safe, because he got complacent. And Jim's still at home, near the end of his convalescence, rather than in the office and easy to keep an eye on. So he kept the channel but let it fade into one of too many, and only set up an alert for major input or something that would suggest distress.  
  
So when the monitoring channel pulls something up, and he hears a low, muttered,  _"Fuck"_  like Jim's just had the air punched out of him, he looks and gets a vid feed.   
  
He's already reaching towards where he's kept a pistol and tranq gun stashed, expecting an intruder, a fight, something -   
  
Jim's lying on his stomach, and Adam would think he was asleep - but he inhales, turning his face into the pillow like he's ashamed, even though he's alone. A movement catches Adam's eye. Jim's hips grind, restless, involuntary, and his knuckles whiten, like he doesn't want to give in.  
  
Oh.

Adam stares. He grits his teeth, tries to tear his eyes away, and fails.  
  
His hand slowly retreats from where he was reaching. He sits, watching his superior lie taut and try not to hump the mattress. He realizes too late that his hand's clenched so tight on his knee he thinks he might break something.

The thought crosses his mind that he could help out with that. Friction. Hell, if there's anyone who deserves a good time, after everything that's happened...

 _Shit_. No. No, he can't have that thought. He blinks, and he opens his mouth to give the feed-off command -   
  
The covers hit the wall, and Jim rolls over, shoves his hand down his boxers.  
  
Adam freezes, tries to make himself look away, and his mind... breaks. Jesus.  
  
Jim's hard enough to cut rock. He takes his hand off his dick and glances down at his fingers, looking surprised when they're smeared with precome. Something pained crosses his face. "Fuck," he mutters again, sandpaper-rough, and throws his arm over his face. Then he shoves his boxers down like he's pissed-off. When he takes hold of himself, he makes a low sound in his throat, and Adam can't tell whether it's pleasure or despair.  
  
Adam starts to give the feed-off command, but somehow, the words don't come. He doesn't know why he leans forward instead.  
  
Maybe it's the fact Jim's one of the few people who calls him by his name, rather than just "aug" or "Jensen." One of the few people who's seen his eyes.

Maybe it's after Jim got to hospital and they trudged in to see him. Seeing the guy rumpled and tired, soft-eyed. Jim put a hand on his shoulder and said, "Thank you." He added belatedly, "Adam." Still soft, hesitant, like he was trying it out and he liked the sound of it. And it had crossed Adam's mind then that Jim's hands were damn gentle considering the work he did. And that the man he saw in the office wasn't the half of it. And he'd known before, but he'd never figured out why he was dwelling on it, why he kept wanting so badly for Jim to be innocent. He realized then, looking into Jim's eyes, that something was creeping up on him. He just hadn't expected it to happen so fast, or for it to be this.  
  
He definitely hadn't expected to see this guy, who moans into the pillow like he's dying, thighs trembling. Adam thinks about crawling between them and just maybe -   
  
His hand strays to his knee. Shifts upwards, just a little. He tenses, stops it.  
  
Jesus. His  _boss._  And this isn't even... unethical doesn't even cover it. He's not that kind of creep. (So maybe he had a dream or two, after the first couple of times he saw it. It just happens. He never meant to know how blissed-out Jim looks when he comes. Like just for a second, the world's off his shoulders. Like he's someone else, someone... warmer, realer. Someone attractive as hell.)

Jim glances downwards, making a startled little noise, like he's surprised how good it feels. Then his eyes fall shut again.

Adam stares at his boss, wild-eyed and flushed down to his chest, arching to work at himself. Looks at the pale line of Jim's throat and the strength in scarred arms. 

He swallows.  
  
When Jim pauses, rummages in a drawer and pulls out the lube, Adam finally makes himself move. "Feed off," he mutters, hastily.

 _Elevated heart rate and core temp,_ the Sentinel warns him helpfully. He dismisses it with a blink.  
  
He sits back on the couch, and exhales. Wonders why it feels like he can't get a full breath. He tries desperately not to think about it. Or about the tent he's starting to pitch in his combats. Goddammit. He can still feel heat in his cheeks, and lower, that tingle under his skin. He scrubs his hand down his face. As if he didn't feel guilty enough.  
  
It happens a couple more times, and he manages to cut the feed and get on with his life. He doesn't know what's changed. Maybe it's just that with the time off, Jim has more time to enjoy it. Or maybe nearly dying gives you perspective. And perspective goes to your dick, apparently.  
  
Damn. He wishes near-death experiences had that effect on him. He just got a few new scars and a little more nightmare fuel.  
  
He just... swears it wasn't like this before. Before it was silent and like clockwork, not Jim gasping in the dark like it means something.  
  
The fifth time, he's tired and pissed-off and two-thirds down a bottle of whiskey when the feed pings. He's drunk, but not drunk enough, and he slides into the feed. He sees the time and half-knows what he'll get. But... just in case, he tells himself, even as his fingers twitch in anticipation and a familiar prickle starts in his spine.  
  
Sure enough, he catches the movement in the dark, the shifting of hips, the low sounds Jim can't quite stifle that say he's close. There's a sheen of sweat on his skin, and his hair's a goddamn mess. His knuckles are white, and he's fucking into his fist desperately, no finesse, so tense it has to hurt.   
  
Adam licks his lips before he can help it.  
  
"Christ," Jim mutters under his breath, so low unaugmented ears probably wouldn't pick it up even if the feed did.  

And then he says - says -   
  
Adam freezes, wondering how the hell he got caught. There wasn't a bug he missed, counter-feeds, there had to be something...  
  
For a moment, Jim pauses. Runs his thumb over his lips, eyes sliding shut, exhaling like he's savouring it. "Fuck," he says, and sounds like he's berating himself. Then he keeps going, gasping and so close to the edge it has to hurt. He turns his head aside, lips moving soundlessly in a shape Adam recognizes.

Like a goddamn plea. Or a prayer.

"Oh, fuck," Jim gasps, " _Adam_..." He makes a hoarse, devastated sound in his throat, and comes.  
  
He collapses back, eyes closed, looking like he can finally breathe. And then he grimaces. Runs his hand through his hair, face tightening in shame.

Adam sits, hand frozen halfway to his whiskey glass, and guesses that he knows what changed after London.


End file.
